‘Just because you’re not six foot and blonde like some people.’
She means Alice. I don’t reply. It’s hard when your best friend looks like Britain’s Next Top Model. A little kernel of envy lodges in my chest and I hate myself for it. We join the throng of students in the corridor, all hurrying to get home.
I change the subject. ‘I can’t believe you still haven’t read The Gallows Dance, it’s a rite of passage.’ The crowd snatches my voice away, and I’m left feeling very small once again.
‘Well I don’t need to now. You should come with a spoiler alert.’
‘You haven’t even seen the film.’
‘Again. Spoiler alert.’
We elbow through a group of Year Ten girls who don’t seem to know the unspoken rule of moving out of the way for sixth formers.
I accidently-on-purpose tread on a blonde girl’s toe. ‘Yeah, but Russell’s seriously fit.’ I’m talking about Russell Jones, the actor who plays Willow in the film.
‘Really? You’ve never mentioned it. Here comes Alice.’ The smile never leaves Katie’s mouth, but it slips completely from her eyes. Like me, she’s learnt to tell when Alice approaches by reading other people. Every male glances over his shoulder, every girl falls silent, brow knitted in a tight frown.
Sure enough, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, but this Moses has long, bronzed legs that swallow up the tiled floor as she strides towards us. A smile lights up her perfect, oval face. She’s always had that smile, ever since I met her on our first day at primary school – the kind of smile that makes you forgive her for being so beautiful.
She stops dead in the middle of the corridor, confident she won’t get jostled. ‘So how did it go?’
‘It was a bag of crap,’ I say.
Katie pats my back. ‘No it wasn’t, it was great.’
‘Yeah, a great big bag of crap,’ I reply.
Alice flips her pale hair over one shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Vi, they clearly don’t get the beauty which is The Gallows Dance – philistines.’ She shoots a meaningful look at Katie.
‘It’s hardly Shakespeare,’ Katie mutters.
Alice sighs. ‘I wish I was in old Thompson’s class, you get loads better stuff to do than us. Plot structure, I could have really contributed to that.’ She loves reminding us she’s a rising fanfic star. She writes all this new material based on The Gallows Dance, messing with the plot, making the characters bend to her will. It’s ironic she feels the need to do this when she’s so accomplished at getting people to do what she wants in real life – perhaps writing is where she hones her art. I swallow down that little kernel of envy again.
‘Miss Thompson said Violet could be a writer, didn’t she, Vi?’ Katie says.
Alice looks at me and winks an inky-blue eye. ‘Bullshit. You haven’t got the imagination, you’d just rewrite The Gallows Dance again and again.’ She loops her arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. ‘Which is a good thing, obviously.’ The scent of her hair – cherry blossom and lemongrass – fills my nostrils. I suddenly feel very special, Alice hugging me in public.
Katie glances at her watch. ‘Look guys, I’ve got to head, I’ve got a cello lesson in five, but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Comic-Con,’ Alice and I say in unison. We look at each other and smile. We’ve been waiting for this for months; we get to meet Russell. Willow. The dry mouth returns and I get this tremor of excitement in my belly, this feeling like my skin’s been briskly towelled.
‘We’re going as characters from The Gallows Dance, agreed?’ Alice says.
‘Yeah, Nate’s been planning his costume for days,’ I reply. Nate’s my little brother, he loves The Gallows Dance, more than me if that’s possible, and Mum insisted he tag along. Thanks, Mum.
Katie begins to walk away. ‘See you tomorrow, fangirls,’ she calls over her shoulder.
When I pulled on my costume this morning, I suddenly understood how Clark Kent could fly, how Peter Parker could scale walls with his sticky palms. It’s that feeling like you can be anyone . . . Do anything. I imagined somehow absorbing Rose’s strength and beauty, simply by wearing her clothes – that hessian fabric knitting into my skin and becoming part of me.
I’d really embraced cosplay this year. Brown tunic, green leggings, army boots, my dark hair allowed to curl and frizz. I’d even smudged my cheeks with olive eyeshadow in an attempt to look battle-ready. My only nod to vanity was the red sash I’d tied around my middle, emphasizing the narrowness of my waist. I felt battle-ready, Comic-Con ready, bring-down-the-Gems ready.
But now, swaying to the rhythm of the Underground, I just feel like an idiot.
The tunnels change from cast iron to brick as we hurtle towards Kensington Olympia. I feel the pressure of sixty-odd eyes on my back, and my fingers grip the cool of the handrail a little tighter. But when I finally stop staring at the grubby carriage floor, I notice most passengers are gawping at either Katie – who looks even more stupid than me – or Alice.
Granted, people always stare at Alice, but today, dressed in an electric blue minidress and propped against a vertical yellow pole like she may just launch into a routine, she commands even more attention than usual. Her hair is hanging down her back and, I notice with a burst of pride, she’s wearing her split-heart necklace. My fingers toy with the other half, the jagged edge cutting into my fingertips. She studies her ghost-like reflection in the window, biting a painted lip as though something isn’t quite right. That’s the thing when you’re gorgeous; you’ve got something to lose.
I touch her hand, a habit from childhood. ‘You look amazing.’
‘As do you.’ She flashes her perfect smile.
‘I look like an urchin.’
‘I thought that was the point, Rose is an urchin, all Imps are.’
Katie groans, appraising her boyish frame. She’s wearing a black catsuit with a series of multicoloured stockings slung diagonally across her middle – strange creepers hugging a tree. ‘At least your tights don’t keep falling down.’ She repositions a neon-yellow stocking beneath her armpit and attempts to fasten it with a safety pin.